La Estrella Solitaria: Nuestra Hermosa Isla
by Dush-kins
Summary: No matter how you define your hero and your protector, your rival and your enemy, your sibling and your lover, in the end it means nothing if you have not yourself. A look at the past 100 years of Puerto Rico's history.
1. Cambio

**A****/****N****: **First fic. Don't flame.

Alright, so this is a story I've written, revolving around Puerto Rico's history, spanning 100 years (1895-1995). This isn't a super history filled fic, but the facts are there; in any case, please ignore any small inaccuracies that may be there. However, if there's something that's just completely, 100% wrong, let me know and I'll gladly change it.

Lots of Spanish is used, but whatever isn't obvious is translated into English just afterward (you'll get what I mean when you read it). I used a combination of my own knowledge of Spanish, and English to Spanish translators. Again, if there's something said in Spanish that is grammatically incorrect, then please let me know ^_^

So yeah. This will be the first of about… 20 chapters? I don't know, give or take. Like most authors here, reviews will fuel my updating speed, so please review ^_^

**Disclaimer**: Don't own Hetalia, that's Himaruya's. Don't technically own Puerto Rico, either; he belongs to history xD

**Cambio (Change)- Prologue**

_They said that having my own flag would be good for me. They told me that I should be able to have a sense of self, separate from Papi. I would, after all, be an independent Nation soon; I would be free from Papi and from everyone else, and finally stand alone, just like all my other brothers and sisters. Yes, they told me. You will be an independent Nation, Puerto Rico. You will be great. Your power will last._

_When I say 'they', I mean my people, of course. The _Puertorriqueño's_. They all wanted to become independent from Papi Spain really badly. And because I was theirs and they were mine and they held my life in the palms of their hands, then of course I had to bend to their will. Such is the curse of a Nation._

_This isn't to say, of course, that I didn't want to be independent. Quite the contrary, it's been my deepest desire for as long as I can remember. All my life, instead of having my own boss, Papi's been my boss. I have always been a part of his Empire. _

_He was once strong. He was once fearsome. He seemed to me like a phoenix, ever on the rise, glowing and shining and expanding, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. The few times he fell, he would rise up again as if it were nothing. It was as if the sun always shone on his land, he was so prosperous. _

_But I have since learned that all his power came directly from us. When I say 'us', I mean my siblings and I. Papi Spain never would've been as powerful as he was if it hadn't been for us. Years ago, if I had been able to muster up the courage to tell him such a thing, he would've__ laughed at me and my ridiculous notion. He would've told me that he was powerful because of himself and himself alone, and that we should consider ourselves lucky to be a part of him._

_But as my brothers and sisters began to declare independence one by one, Papi's power began to diminish. No longer was he the terrifying Empire that he used to be. The phoenix I once knew as my Papi was falling out of the sky at such a fast and tragic pace that I somehow knew that he wouldn't be able to rise from the ashes this time._

_The year I got my flag, he was still an Empire, but that was only thanks to two cousins I'd never met, a brother, and myself._

_Cuba and I were the last of Papi's Empire in South America. If you're speaking in terms of years, Cuba and I were among the oldest of all our brothers and sisters; but if you're speaking in terms of development, we were the youngest. Nations age as they develop. Cuba and I… we never did get the chance to develop much. Our brothers and sisters, who had been colonized much later than us, already looked like adults while we looked no older than children._

_But that doesn't matter, he insisted. That will all change soon. Together, we will gain our independence. Just as long as we stand by each others sides. Of course we'll get it, he said. We will be great. Our power will last._

_Our flags were near identical. The same pattern, same design, same trio of colors, the only difference being the arrangement of said colors. My people designed my flag to be just like his, to show our allegiance to one another. The _Cubano_ and the _Puertorriqueño _have always been_ _good friends. _

_The day that they gave me my flag, I gripped the large, 5-foot pole in my hands. It was heavy, and I imagined it to be akin to the weight of responsibility I would feel once I became independent. When they shifted the weight over to me—slowly, as not to overwhelm me—I slowly raised it above my head, and waved it in the air, once, twice. Then I stopped, because it was too heavy. But even so, it was enough to get the crowd in front of me going._

_"Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico! PUERTO RICO!" _

_They chanted again and again my name, proud to be mine, letting that pride run through them and along the veins which held Puerto Rican blood. Their feelings spilt over into me, and I could never remember feeling as happy as I had right then. _

_Roughly two years after that, on February 9, 1898, Papi gave me autonomy, which meant that I got to govern myself. I was still technically his territory, but him handing this power over to me was just the last step. The next would be independence. I was so close, I could taste it!_

_During this time, Papi was out fighting a war with this man—a country—named America. As soon as I heard that name, I was immediately struck by a childhood memory of mine. _

_I once overheard one of my brothers, Mexico, talking to his boss about some guy named America. But, the thing is, he wasn't really talking. It was more like yelling, and he was also throwing things around, breaking everything in his own office. Apparently, this man named America just decided, out of the blue, that it would be a good idea to invade my brother's vital regions and claim them as his own. Mexico was nothing less than furious, this scary red light flashing in his eyes whenever he said America's name. I'd never seen him look so dangerous. He went to war with America not too long after that. Fueled by his rage and lust for vengeance, he fought valiantly but still lost._

_I've always admired Mexico for his strength and integrity, and I know for a fact that he's quite the force to be reckoned with while on the battlefield. If this America guy could beat Mexico while he was at his full strength, then I could only imagine what he would do to my weak Papi._

_I remember feeling sorry for Papi, before reminding myself of all the awful things he'd done to me in the past. So then I just decided to sit back and watch it all unfold. Cuba did the same thing. We stood at a distance and didn't offer to help Papi, not once, knowing that when America beat him, he would finally be too weak to stop us from declaring our independence once and for all. _

_And it stood this way for all of three months, before what I did not want to touch finally came home to me._

_As I've said before, I had my autonomy, but was still a territory of Papi Spain. I think America saw this and immediately assumed I was on his side. Before I got to tell him that no, that wasn't it at all, before I could tell him that I hated Papi and wanted nothing more than to see him crumble, America brought the war to my house. _

_On May 10, 1898, America and Papi fought in my capital, San Juan. Two days later, America bombed my capital. I had never felt such destruction rattle my bones since Papi's days as a _conquistador_. If a capital of a Nation is said Nations heart, then mine broke a thousand times during those two days. My people were screaming, dying all around me, caught in a war neither they nor I wanted any part of. I had been through worse and survived worse, but even so, its nothing any Nation wants to go through._

_America didn't stop bothering me after that. On June 25, he blocked all my harbors, so I couldn't receive anything from Papi or Cuba or anyone else. My main crops were sugarcane and coffee—both very good things, but no one can survive on those two crops alone. So, they starved us. Then, little by little, his soldiers start coming to my house and staying, occupying my land. They were there to fight Papi, but since I was a part of Papi, they fought me, too. We were all the enemy. So, they terrorized us, too. _

_After that, on July 25, America sent over 16,000 of his troops to my house all at once. My people were so scared of these Americans by this point that no one dared to oppose them. These men marched through my heart, San Juan, as if they owned the place._

_By August they did. My whole house was occupied by then._

_In the mist of all this, one day I looked up at my flag, the symbol of my people and me, and I realized something. It hit me, harder than any one of America' bombs, and I wondered how I never noticed it before. My heart filled with disgust as what was once so beautiful turned tainted and eerie. _

_My flag looked just like America's. _Just like his_. I don't know how it happened, but my flag and his flag were like one, his 50 states bunched together as stars, and then my star, alone but still like his. I felt like crying, but somehow, I couldn't bring myself to do it._

_On September 29, it's announced throughout my island that I am now the property of America. This is done by Papi's officials. I found this bitter kind of amusement in realizing that they never asked if that would be okay with me. Maybe they did that on purpose. Maybe they knew that if they asked, I would've said no. _

_Less than three months later, it was over: the war, Papi's Empire, and any chance I ever had at becoming independent. As his prize, America took me, Cuba, and my cousin, Guam. Then he bought Papi's very last territory, my other cousin, the Philippines, for 20 million dollars. _

_The last words I said to Papi were, "Te odio." _("I hate you.")

_But he just laughed at that. "No se dice eso, hijo. Eso no es lindo" _("Don't say that, son. That isn't cute.")._Then he bent down and hugged me, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me so tightly that any doubts I may have had that this wasn't as final as it appeared washed away. At that point, I knew that it really was an eternal parting. In my ear, he whispered, "Ahora es el tiempo para ser valiente. Tu vas a vivir con America por un tiempo, pero nunce olvides quien tu eres, si? No dejes que America te quite tu indentidad. Tu, eres Puerto Rico para siempre" _("Now is the time for you to be brave. You're going to go live with America for a while, but never forget who you are, okay? Don't let America steal your identity. You will forever be Puerto Rico.")

_Then, I felt this wetness in my hair, and I realized that Papi's was crying, imposing a rainstorm on my tropics. I pulled away; my island had enough hurricanes as it was without him adding to the problem. I looked at him and shook my head a little. "Est__ú__pido." _("Stupid.")

_And again, he just smiled._

_I turned away from him, before my head could fill with silly, sympathetic thoughts about how maybe Papi wasn't as bad as I always thought he was. I shook off the feeling, and walked over to my brother. He was angry, furious at being taken by America, at being the pawn of yet another country's Empire. He was so upset that he was shaking, but when I placed my hand on his shoulder, he didn't pull away._

_"No te precupe, hermano. Todavia hay esperanza."_ ("Don't worry, brother. There's still hope.")

_He looked at me, and gave me a tight, forced smile. But I could still see the fire in his eyes as if it had never left, and he nodded in agreement. "Claro que si." _("Of course.")

_I smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek, chaste and innocent, although it was still enough to get him to blush. Then, I turned away from him and walked away, past my cousins, all the way up to America. He smiled at me, and I could tell that it was truly genuine, although there was an arrogance behind that smile that ruined it to a certain degree. Without his military uniform on, he didn't look as intimidating as the first time I'd seen him. With just his slacks, shirt and bomber jacket on, he even looked sort of… nice. His hair was the color of corn, with eyes so blue and clear that it was as if within them, he held the sky. Young and full of promise, he reminded me of Papi when he was a _conquistador. _This man, America, was truly a Nation on the rise. _

_And with that, my heart sank. Despite what I'd told my brother just moments before, I knew there was truly no hope. How would I ever gain my freedom now?_

* * *

**A/****N****:** Okay, so it's done! A few things I'd like to clear up:

I was about to have Puerto Rico and Spain be very close as father and son, but after I read more into Puerto Rico's history under Spanish imperialism, I realized that I could never do that. Like most Imperialist countries, Spain treated his colonies like crap; in fact, the conquistadors eradicated almost all of Puerto Rico's indigenous population in only 7 years. Now, that takes some sick dedication, and even after a few hundred years I don't think Puerto Rico (or any Nation, really) would forgive something like that too easily.

Yes, Puerto Rico's flag was modeled after Cuba's, not America's. Look it up if you don't believe me; Puerto Rico's flag was created by the Puerto Rican Section of the Cuban Revolutionary Party, stationed in New York City. They created it to be identical to the Cuban flag, the difference being the arrangement of colors. They did this in an act of solidarity, since both countries were fighting for independence from Spain. And also, food for thought: the original design had the flag's colors as red, white, and _sky _blue (not dark). It was only changed in 1952 to resemble the dark blue of the American flag. That's why, at times, you'll come across a Puerto Rican flag with the triangle colored light blue instead of dark. This version of the flag is usually interpreted as being a symbol of Puerto Rican independence, while those with dark blue usually symbolize support Puerto Rico's status as a Commonwealth, or in extreme cases, Puerto Rican statehood.

So… yeah. Rant aside, the fact that Puerto Rico's flag resembles America's so much is just a really weird coincidence.

Yes, America did invade Puerto Rico during the Spanish American war; yes, it did get pretty ugly. The Puerto Rican's didn't put up much of a resistance, though; the Spaniards did most of the fighting.

That's about all I have to say for now. Review. Next chapter should be up soon.


	2. Un Solo Corazón

**A/N:** Hai U Guise, Sorry I updated so late liek.

…all terrible grammar aside, I really am sorry. Life just body slammed me there for a little while. I didn't abandon this story (or this site, for that matter). No, not at all. How could I ever abandon telling the glorious history of my homeland? :3

As part of my apologies, I made this chapter extra-long. My document tells me 7,275 words. Three times longer than the last one. So… yes. I hope y'all like it ^_^

This chapter pretty much deals with Puerto Rico and Cuba's relationship. The two were incredibly close up until the Cuban Revolution… in any case, this chapter is considerably less history based than the last one. History is still a main element, obviously, but I added in a lot of character development, too. Angst and war and brotherly love and so much more c:

A lot less Spanish is used, just because there's more dialogue in this chapter and it was taking me too long write it all out and double check it and whatnot. Me taking out the Spanish also has historical sustenance to it, so it is somewhat justified. But on those grounds, the Spanish definitely has a chance to come back in full force in later chapters, so we'll see!

Oh, yes, and the quotes used at the beginning and ending of this chapter are quotes from the poem _"Cuba y Puerto Rico"_ by Lola Rodríguez de Tío. She was a Puerto Rican national who advocated for both Puerto Rican and Cuban independence. It's a wonderful poem; you can really feel the love that she has for both countries. Even if she does refer to them both as females at one point (I can definitely see Cuba and Puerto Rico reading it and being all, "b-but we're guys…" o_o)

In any case, let me stop ranting (can you tell that I'm kinda out of it? I think you can.) Let's get on with it.

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Hetalia. Or Puerto Rico. Or Lola Rodríguez de Tío. Or any of her kick-ass poems. But imagine I did? :3

**Un Solo Corazón (One Heart) – Chapter 1**

"_I will raise my song_

_Today, Cuba and Puerto Rico_

_Are my two great loves"_

_1900_

I haven't seen him in years, but when I close my eyes, I can still picture Cuba's face perfectly. It was round like the moon or like that of a china doll. His eyes were piercing, sharp, like the claws of a hawk, his twin orbs stabbing whatever he did not trust with no hint of fear or remorse. For someone who was still supposed to only be a child, my brothers hands were so big, and when said hands would cup my face, I could always feel his warmth radiate into me. His skin was rough and calloused and a few shades darker than mine. He never had a bad thing to say to me or about me (to this day, he is the only only only Nation to have never insulted me). He always used to tell me that my hair smelled nice and that my eyes were so pretty. Whenever I tripped and fell over myself, he was always the first one to help me back up.

Brother Cuba was my best and only friend back in those days. Back in the days or grey skies and winter and Washington, D.C, up in America's home and heart.

We went to go live with America in March of 1900, just five months after we were deemed America's war trophies after Papi Spain's devastating loss in the Spanish-American War. By then all the paper work had been finalized, and we were officially territories of the United States of America, and as such, we would have to listen to and obey him in all that he said and commanded. When Papi ruled over us, he allowed us to stay in our own homes, but America would have none of that; he wanted to take his four new prizes home with him instead of leaving them where they belonged. But as much as we may have wanted to stay in our own houses, it didn't matter in the end. As territories, we had to obey. There was no choice.

Since day one, he made sure that we knew who he was. Or, at least, who he perceived himself to be: "I'm the hero!"

We quickly learned that it was his catchphrase. He said it at least six or seven times a day: once at every meal, before and after our English lessons, and right before bed. I would never say anything in response, and neither would Guam or Philippines, but each and every time Cuba would always snap, "No, you not!"

Cuba never trusted America, not with one fiber of his being. He hated America for not allowing us the freedom we'd worked so hard for, how he snatched that dream of ours away and held it far about our heads, where we could no longer reach them. America frustrated Cuba so much, because independence had been his lifelong dream, and it now appeared as if he would have to wait another five centuries for his next chance at achieving it.

A lot of things changed about Cuba when we went to go live with America. His fuse had gotten shorter, his temper flaring at only that slightest provocation. He slept longer hours and stopped smiling. But one thing that did not change was the way he treated me.

"_Mi hermanito hermoso_… ay, my brother is so cute!"

Neither Guam nor Philippines would ever say anything when he coddled over me. But America would always agree with him whole heartily, much to my brother's dismay.

* * *

America wouldn't let us speak Spanish, not to him or each other.

_"Pue si, el me dijo—"_("And well, he told me—")

"Hey!" America would yell. "Knock it out with all that Spanish stuff!"

In the kitchen, in the yard, on the roof, in the bed that we shared—it didn't matter where we were, America would somehow always hear us and come rushing over to remind us that he didn't want that language spoken in his house. If Papi had been oblivious, America was the opposite: he always noticed everything. And when he heard us, he'd yell, in this big, booming voice that was unbecoming of him. I would find myself involuntarily shrinking back, startled, afraid of this man with the sky in his eyes. Cuba would never do that; he'd glare at America, go right on ahead speaking the language of our father, even louder than before. But America would not back down, either. He would just keep yelling and yelling and yelling until my whole world spun and I was crying with my hands clutched over my ears. One day it got to the point that I myself told Cuba to stop, to just comply to what America wanted, because when he yelled like that it took me back to when he bombed my capital. When he yelled like that, he remained me of Papi, especially back in the early days. I didn't want that anymore.

America could yell at Cuba a thousand times over to never to speak Spanish again, and my brother would never obey. I asked him just once, and he stopped immediately.

I didn't understand why America didn't want us speaking our own language. I would've been able to understand, if he didn't know what we were saying; but that wasn't the case at all. He was quite fluent in Spanish, a skill he developed during his conflicts with brother Mexico. If he could understand, then why stop us?

One day, I built up the courage to ask him.

"America, why you no want us speaking Spanish?"

He glanced at me once, then back away, and answered, "Cause, everything sounds better in English. Duh."

I would never voice it out loud, but I supposed then that America and I would have to agree to disagree, because I had to say, English just had to be one of the roughest, most uncivilized languages I had ever heard.

When I told Cuba this, he declared that America truly had to be the stupidest Nation alive. He said it in this confident, self-assured way, in the same tone of voice that America always spoke in. In the way that left no room for argument.

* * *

On April 2, 1900, America woke me up in the middle of the night. He shook my shoulder, whispered by name over and over: "Rich Port, Rich Port…"

Rich Port. It was what my name literally translated into, from Spanish to English. I hated how he insisted on calling me that, already dead set on Americanizing me. My new name just had such a gritty, ugly feel to it. The first time he'd called me by that bastardization of my name, I kindly asked him to stop. But he didn't; he just went right on with it, as if he hadn't heard me at all. As if he didn't have to listen to me, because I was just a little island. His territory, at that. I fumed on the inside, but swallowed by anger. Like always.

"Rich Port! C'mon, wake up…"

I groaned, my way of telling him that I was awake. I could hear the smile in his whisper. "Oh, good. Don't worry, this'll only take a sec. Here," he grabbed my hand, shoved a pen into it and guided by hand to a piece of paper. "Sign this."

"Mmmh?" I opened my eyes a bit, and I couldn't see a thing in the dark save for the glare of the moonlight that reflected off America's glasses. "What is this?"

"Oh, just some paperwork. Nothing, really. Just sign it."

"I want to read it."

"Uh…" he chuckled awkwardly. "No need for that, Rich Port! It's boring! Besides, you probably wouldn't even understand it. You're still a beginner when it comes to English. This document is filled with all these big words that would just end up confusing you. You don't need to read this. Trust me."

Beside me, I felt Cuba stir.

"So, if this is true… then what is the document about? Why should I sign it?"

"It's just an agreement that would allow free trade between us, among other things."

I don't know what it was… maybe it was the drowsiness, or my own stupidity, but I actually bought into what America was trying to sell me. I nodded half-heartedly. "Mm, okay…" I brought the pen up to the paper in front of me—with America guiding my hand where to sign, when suddenly—

"America," I heard my brother say. I felt the shifting of weight on my side of the bed as he sat up. _"No lo puedo crere."_ ("I can't believe it.")

"How many times do I need to say it!" America snapped, immediately cross. But Cuba remained calm. "It is sad. You act so… so… important around us. Like you are always correct. But you really are not. You have to trick _mi pobre hermanito_ into signing this thing while he is sleepy, because you," he suddenly broke off into a violent coughing fit, the sound slightly garbled, as if his body were trying to eject something from his chest. After a few long moments, the coughs subsided and he continued. "…because you know that he would not do it," cough, "if he were fully awake. What is this document really about?"

America stood quiet for just a moment, and I could almost picture his face, the tenseness in it, his tight pursed lips and narrowed eyes. After a few agonizing moments, he said through undoubtedly clenched teeth, "That's none of your business."

"Yeah, but," cough, "it is Puerto Rico's." Cuba turned to me, placed a hand on my shoulder. "Little brother, there is more to," cough, "this thing than he is telling you. If it were only for free trade, then he would be fine with letting you read."

Well, he did have point… "You are right. America, I do not want to sign unless I can read it first."

"Good little brother. America," his voice strained for a moment; he cleared his throat, "turn on the light, _por favor_."

America clicked his tongue, but complied. "Fine," he said as he flipped on the light switch; he handed over the document to me. "But I'm telling you, you're not going to be able to understand it."

After my eyes had adjusted to the glare of the lights overhead, I took a look at the heading of the document. Its title read, _Foraker Act_. From what I could understand, it was some sort of law that did establish free trade, but also… it also…

"I do not want to sign this."

"What?" America asked incuriously.

"No. This… this is just a bunch of laws that will be setting up a government for me. I do not want you to set up a government for me. I want to do that for myself."

America stood quiet for a moment, before grabbing my wrist and quickly scribbling down my name for me. I'd been too shocked to react; Cuba pulled my arm away a second too late. "America, you bastard!"

He turned back to look at me just before he left, and gave me a sympathetic look. Like he felt bad for me because I was so stupid. "It's for your own good, Rich Port."

* * *

One morning in mid-November, I woke up and looked out my window. What greeted me were small, tiny puffs of white frost descending upon us from the sky. The first thought that came to mind was that the clouds were falling apart. Nothing like this had ever happened in my house before, and I felt certain that it was an omen of the worst kinds. I just knew, we were all going to die, we were all going to die, we were all going to—

"BROTHERRRRR!"

I ran down the halls of America's house trying to find Cuba, because if anyone could stare the disintegrating clouds down and put them in their place, it was him. I eventually found him in our room, curled up into a ball and under the covers at the corner of our bed. It was out of character of him, very unlike my usually energetic brother, but at the time, I wrote off his fatigue as an insignificant matter in the face of my panic. I leapt over to him and began to shake him violently.

"Wake up! Wake up! Ay, dios mio, the sky is falling!"

Cuba's head poked out from underneath his sheets, and he gave me a plaintive, if not a bit annoyed, look. "What?"

I shook him desperately with each word. "The. World. Is. Ending!"

He looked at me for a moment, his wan and suddenly angular looking face looking completely indifferent. "And what you want me to do about this?"

I stuttered for a good minute, stunned that he would ask such a thing. Well, wasn't it obvious what he was supposed to do? He was my big brother! My defender! He was supposed to save the day! "G-Go stop it!"

But Cuba just gave me this miserable look. "Puerto Rico. The world is no ending."

"But… but…!" I pointed wordlessly out towards the window of our room, a small window that only a tall person could look out from. Neither I nor my brother had made it up to five feet yet. He glanced over to it, and then back at me. "I no can't see from there. You, me… we go outside."

Outside? I shook my head wildly in protest, but Cuba was already halfway out of bed. He wore nothing but a t-shirt and some shorts, but he made no notion towards his jacket, which laid carelessly tossed aside near the corner of his room. He took me firmly by the hand and all but dragged me out of his room, down the hall, past servants and maids, up the stairs, and out onto the roof. Why he had chosen the roof, at the time I didn't know, but from where I am now the reason is so clear.

I stood at the doorway, unwilling to go any further than that. Cuba continued onwards, not at all daunted by the cold, even in his lack of adequate clothing. "Look, see! Up there!" I pointed up towards the sky, where the little tuffs of cloud continued to fall. They cascaded and fell on my brother; as soon as they hit his skin, his hot, hot skin, they withered on contact. Even renegade, wayward clouds respected him, it seemed. He continued to walk further and further away from me, until he stood just a few steps away from the edge. He stood there unmoving, let the wind go through him, and I also stood where I was, arms wrapped around myself, freezing. "C-Cuba?"

He looked back towards me, said nothing, did nothing but hold his hand out to me. He wanted me to join him out in the cold, out where the world was ending. I would not.

He soon got the message and turned his head up towards the sky, and he looked up at it in wonder, as if he were trying to capture the memory in his heart forever. But, why would he try to do that?

America found us about half an hour later, and he yelled and yelled and yelled at Cuba for being so stupid, but my brother did not respond. He just crawled back under the covers.

* * *

I remember one day it being me, Cuba, Philippines, Guam and America sitting around the dining room table, receiving our English lessons like normal. And then the next day, it was only me, Cuba and Guam, with no one there to teach us and a lot of unanswered questions.

There was chatter around the house. Both America and the Philippines had gone missing into the night, apparently. No one saw either of them leave. No one had any answers.

But everything soon came to light, once the media got in on it. Philippines had ran away. America took after her. They were both in the Pacific now, fighting. At war. America was slaughtering millions. He was allowing his men to publicly execute anyone found guilty of supporting Filipino independence. He was burning down forests, leveling mountains, all but sinking some of her islands—

And I couldn't help but think_, all this, for a young girl who's barely strong enough to fight you back anyway?_

What a guy. Even now, I think that he was setting her as an example, for us and for the rest of the world: _Do not cross the United States of America. Or he will find you._

Cuba was the only one us who wasn't surprised. We prayed for her everyday, because even though we _still_ had yet to know her well, she was still family. And all that was happening, it wasn't her fault.

We all agreed then, it just may have been better with Papi Spain. At least he never tried to hide the fact that he was a monster.

* * *

I didn't notice how sick Cuba was becoming until 1901.

His symptoms were subtle, at first. Coughing, fatigue, dizziness, loss of appetite. I didn't think much of it, until that one morning when he got out of bed and almost immediately collapsed, clutching his head in his hands and mumbling something about the world spinning. After that, he didn't bother getting up anymore; he would stay in bed all day, mostly sleeping. He began to lose weight rapidly, his skin fading to a sickening shade of yellow-brown that was unbecoming of him. My brother's eyes lost all of their life, his voice all of its strength. I knew then that something was seriously wrong, and despite protests from those around the house I refused to leave his side. He'd always been there for me, so now it was my turn to return the favor.

I would sit there and sing to him while he slept, absolutely convinced that he could hear me, wherever he was. I would sing our folk songs, the ones about freedom and independence, because above all, I did not want his dreams to die. I wanted him to hold onto them as I was holding on, because if he was going to live through this, then we would not be living in this house afterwards. And if he did not—

I prayed to God, and promised Him that I would be the most benevolent country ever, if He would only let my brother live. I pleaded with the Almighty to just allow me this one thing, and I swore that I would never ask for anything again. As some sort of trade off, I told Him that He could do anything he wanted to me afterwards. _Just please,_ I would pray. _Let Cuba live._

The instances where he would be awake gradually became few and far in-between, but whenever he was, I would seize the opportunity. I would talk to him, though never about being sick. I spoke as if everything was normal, about what we always discussed: food, politics, the war, music, our siblings. I did most of the talking, rarely allowing him a word edgewise, because whenever he did speak, he looked like it was taking an enormous amount of willpower on his part. Even if it was just a sentence, he would always be out of breath afterwards, panting, as if speaking itself were an exhausting activity. I didn't want him to talk because of that. It was painful enough to look at him as it was.

To my great amazement, when America recived news on how sick Cuba was, he didn't do anything on his behalf. For all wknew, he could've been dying, and yet, America didn't raise a finger to help him. No, not until he returned and saw for himself how frail and thin my brother had become did our 'hero' bring any sort of help.

Arrays of professional-looking white men in suits came in to evaluate my brother at America's command. They surrounded his bedside, all talking at once, prodding and poking him everywhere, and I wasn't even allowed to be with him. I waited on the roof of America's house, where Cuba and I had gone up to see the snow fall just a few months prior. It was autumn by this point, the season that marks the beginning of endings. _Of endings._ I tried putting my faith in God. I constantly reminded myself that I had the Divine on my side. But even so, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was soon going to lose the only person who had ever loved me. It was up on that roof that I cried for the first time about it, and I've always seen crying as pointless, but at that point I could no longer hold it in.

Hours later, when all those men had left and I tried to go back to my brother, America stopped me from entering. He then told me that I couldn't see Cuba anymore.

"¡¿Pero porque?" ("But why?") I cried, forgetting that America did not want me speaking Spanish anymore. _"¡No importo si me pongo enfermo! ¡Quiero ver mi hermano!"_ ("I don't care if I get sick! I want to see my brother!")

"Language, Rich Port," he reminded me, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I just… I can't have you getting sick, too."

"Is the disease really bad?"

"He doesn't have any disease." America paused for a moment, rethinking his statement. "Well," he rubbed his chin, sighed after a moment, looking defeated. "He doesn't have a disease, not one that, say, a human would have. But he's still sick. There's… there's been a lot of political unrest in Cuba since the war ended. I didn't know that anything was going on, because he never told me anything…"

He never said anything to me, either.

"I just found out today what was going on in him from, those guys who came over to check on him. My boss' cronies. They say that things in Cuba are a _mess_. Chaotic, really…"

He continued speaking, but I had stopped listening at that point.

Cuba, my brother, the one who could just glance at me and tell if something was wrong… he'd been in pain all this time, hadn't he? It explained everything. His short temper. His fatigue. The way he would becoming annoyed at even the slightest provocation. Why he slept so much. The bags under his eyes. The way he looked at the snow on that day as if he wanted to capture it in his memory forever. Did he think that, perhaps, it would be the first and last time he would ever get to see such a thing? The very thought of such a dead-end outlook left me with a dull ache in my chest, and it suddenly occurred to me then that I hadn't seen Cuba smile in quite some time. Nearly a year and a half. He had known all along.

I suddenly felt like crying again, or screaming, or marching straight into my brothers' room and slapping him across the face. How dare he be hurting that way and not tell me! Did he really not trust me that much?

"America," I interrupted. I think that my teeth were clenched as I said this. "My brother. I want to see him."

"Uh, no. I already told you, I don't want you to catch any—"

"I cannot catch craziness!" I snapped. America stepped back, like he was surprised. Like he was scared of me, for a change. "I have been with him for all this time, and I am not sick! I was there when you was not. You were out beating up my poor _prima_, and you left me here, with a brother who was getting sicker and sicker and sicker, and look at me. I am fine, but he is not." I could feel the heat grown in my face, my anger rising, and at that point my rant took a completely different turn. I was no longer begging; I told him then what I really knew. I let him know that Puerto Rico wasn't as dumb as he thought. "Please. I know you, America. I know what you are doing. You are going to let Cuba choke, just so you can keep his land forever. Just let the tension rise and rise until the _Cubano's_ start killing each other, and then, _then_, you will show that to the world, and say that they cannot take care of themselves. That they killed their own Nation before he even got to be one. You are taking Philippines by force, you are letting Cuba die, just so you can show to the world that you can be as hateful and as devilish as my Papi, that guy England, France, Russia. If that is the kind of man you want to be… America, I really, really think that you can be better than that, but if that is truly who you want to become, then go ahead. I am just a little island, so I cannot stop you. But do not say that I cannot see my sick brother one last time. Remember the person you were before and have just an ounce of mercy left for me. Please. If you are really going to let my brother, the only person I have, choke, then at least let me say goodbye."

America took a step back, his twin skies wide with shock. I didn't wait for him to recover; I shoved past him into mine and Cuba's room, where he was sleeping on his side of the bed. He jumped awake at the sound of my slamming the door, and he blinked blearily against the darkness. "P-Puerto Rico…? What you doing here?" he mumbled.

I didn't answer his question; I just asked one of my own. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

I charged over to him, grabbed his arm. He hissed in pain. "Tell me what was happening to you!"

His half lidded eyes slowly widened to the size of saucers once he realized what I was talking about. He began to shake his head, the beginnings of what would have been an obvious lie, but I saved him the trouble. "Do not lie. Please. I know what is happening. America told me."

Cuba grimaced. "Puerto Rico… brother, listen to me—"

"No. Just answer. Why did you hide this from me? Why for so long? How can we be connected if we keep secrets from one another?"

"You and I are… connected?"

"Yes! After everything that happened, how can we not be connected?" I couldn't believe that he'd just asked me that. Cuba and I had fought for our independence from Papi Spain together, combining my intellectuals and his militants to make the perfect team. But even before we began to fight for autonomy… we'd always been close. Always. Among the first to be colonized, born almost dead, from fire plumes and genocide and underneath the heel of Papi's boot, we'd always been together. And we still were, even after 400 years. He was my best and only friend.

The only person who had ever loved me. How could he wonder about something like that?

He sat up so that we could look at each other eye to eye. "I did not want you to worry. I never want you to worry about anything, especially not about me."

"But, but, I was worried anyway! I worried about you every day. You were so sick and you are never like that, never that weak, and to see you like that hurt me. A lot. Right here," I pressed a fist to my chest. "For the past few weeks, I really thought that you were not going to be here to see 1902."

Cuba looked at me for a long moment, studying me, his face hard and his eyes, like always, a mystery. And then, for the first time in nearly two years, he smiled. It was small and frail looking, but it was still there. He reached over and hugged me, buried his face in the crook of my neck. Such affection was rare from Cuba, so after I got over my initial shock I returned the gesture, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I realized then in a fleeting thought that I actually missed how robust he used to be before falling ill; there had been more of him then, and I liked that. I missed his laughter and his brightly colored shirts and his loud voice and his drums and black beans and unshakable conviction and our connection and—

He mumbled something into my neck that I didn't quite hear. "What?"

He let me go, held me out at arm's length. And then my brother said, eyes downcast, "I am lucky, luckier than most. Somebody actually loves me."

We'd been wronged in almost everything, but Cuba was right. At least in this area, we were luckier than most other Nations ever would be.

* * *

The next morning, America called me into his office.

I walked in, expecting the worst but still with my head up high. I told him the truth, so I figured, at least I wasn't about to be punished for some trivial thing, like Papi Spain used to do. I opened up the heavy brass doors that lead to his office. From his place behind his desk, he smiled at me. I did not return the gesture.

"Rich Port—"

"Please, America, save the pleasantries."

"Huh?"

"I know what you are here to do. Please, do not try to lecture me. Please, I have heard all that you are going to say many times before. Just give me my punishment."

"Punishment?" He let out a short laugh. "Is that why you think you're here?"

My head short up, and America started cracking up, almost like he couldn't believe the look on my face. "B-But," I stammered. "Is that not why you called me here?"

"Psh, naw! I came in here to tell you the good news." He picked up a small stack of papers on his desk and held them up for me to see. "You know what this is?"

I shook my head. The smile on his face grew.

"This is… pretty much a carbon copy of your_ Foraker Act_. Except, it was has these small little differences here and there. What you have, but tailored to fit another country. Do you know who that country is?"

I prayed to God that it was Guam. When I didn't answer, America filled in the blank for me. "Well, it's for Cuba of course."

We stood staring at each other for a long moment, as the weight of his words sank in. Tears stung at my eyes. "You bastard. You almost killed him, but you still will not stop."

I whispered this, but America caught it. "Wow. That hurts, Rich Port." He pressed his hand to his chest to emphasize his point. "You're so ungrateful! Why would you call your brothers liborator, his hero, _the one who's going to let him have his what he wants,_" he dropped the bill into the trash-can next to his desk. "…why on earth would you call that guy a bastard?"

No, America wasn't a bastard. With that one sentence, he was the most beautiful country in the world.

"America, w-why would you do this?"

"Because, what you told me yesterday, it got to me, kiddo. It really did. It got me to thinking, _'do I really want to be as mean as all those other Empires? Is that what a hero is supposed to do?'_" The smile slipped from his face as he continued. "I swear, I never wanted to kill Cuba or anything… but I will admit, I should have been more on top of things. I just got so caught up with trying to bring Philippines home and everything…" America's eyes grew distant for a moment; it was then that I remembered, he was leaving back to the Pacific in a few days. "I kinda let Cuba slip. But not anymore." He clasped his hands together. "I'm going to help him now. As we speak, my boss is out there with his guys making arrangements and whatnot. From the little bit that he told me, they're going to be sending some guys out there to build schools and hospitals and even some roads. Try to modernize him a little bit. This, and independence, should quell all the internal unrest."

"And when will you be letting Cuba go?"

"As soon as that's all taken care of. But trust me, he'll never be too far away. I mean, he'll be living 90 miles off of Florida," America chuckled. "Also, I'm going to make him sign this thing," he held up another document to me; this one was much shorter than the one he'd just thrown away. "It's called the _Platt Amendment._ Figure I might as well be honest with you: it's a document I'm gonna make him add to his constitution, which'll let me have a say in what's going on in him. Just to make sure some crazy dictator doesn't become his boss someday. I'll stay out of his business for the most part, though. I promise."

"W-Well, okay. I guess that sounds reasonable."

America tilted his head to the side. "If you're okay with it, then why are you crying?"

"Because!" I wiped a tear away from my eye. "I am just so glad."

America frowned a little. "You know that I'm not giving you up, right?"

"Oh, I know," I sniffled. "I am happy for Cuba." What I left unsaid was that I planned on joining him very soon. No, America didn't need to know about any of that yet. He handed me a handkerchief to wipe my snot on and I smiled in thanks.

* * *

Cuba gradually got better during the months that followed.

The color returned to his face. He began putting some weight back on. He could walk around again without feeling as if he were about to collapse. I had my brother back, and with that, my faith in the world and the Divine. I thanked God every day for answering my prayers.

But even after he learned of America's goodness and his pending independence, he wasn't happy. Not completely.

"He should let you go, too. He is just letting me go because he feel guilty."

I knew that, but I pretended like I didn't. "Be happy and thank America."

"I do not want to go unless you are coming with me."

"If I do not go with you side by side out the door, then I will go after you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

My brother hated the _Platt Amendment_. He signed it with a heavy heart. But mine was light as air. After almost losing him to death, I realized that I'd rather lose him this way instead. A free sibling is better than a dead one. He needed to get out of here. He needed to leave.

"Wait for me."

I told him this on May 20, 1902. We were at the gate to America's house, and I held his hand in mine. I looked at him; he looked down at the floor. "Will you?"

"Yeah." He smiled a little. "Yeah, of course."

"And you won't forget me, will you?"

His head shot up at that one, his eyes wide. "How could I ever forget _mi Hermosa Isla?"_

For once, he was the one to make me blush.

"I will be back here soon," he assured me. "To visit."

"Okay. I'll be waiting." I let go and stepped away from him. "Bye, brother."

He smiled at me. The same smile as always, the one that lit up his eyes. If I close my eyes, I can still see it today. "_Adios, hermano_."

My brother, Cuba. Always the heartbreaker.

"_Cuba and Puerto Rico are a bird's two wings_

_Receiving flowers and bullets_

_In one heart"_

**

* * *

**A/N:Finished!

Okay, as for any historical clarification… when Puerto Rico first became a territory of the US, English was deemed the official language and any official usage of the Spanish language was prohibited. The same was done with Guam and the Philippines, but not with Cuba (I only had him stop talking Spanish because America's yelling was making Puerto Rico cry. And because it was easier on me). This ban stood in place until 1952, mostly because it was seen as suppressing culture but also because the ban really didn't work (most Puerto Rican's outside of San Juan still only knew Spanish).

_The Foraker Act!_ This was the law that officially set up Puerto Rico's government, one that was to be completely subordinate to the US. Obviously, later on when PR gained the status of a commonwealth and wrote up his own constitution, this act was repealed.

Um… the snow. Well. At first, I just wanted Puerto Rico to have an extreme reaction to it, and for Cuba to have to calm him down. However, as I was writing it, it kinda turned into something else. Um… Cuba outside in the snow without a jacket on? It symbolizes him going out into the cold, his revolution, siding with Russia during the Cold War. Puerto Rico staying behind? His decision to stay with America. Yeah. I don't know how often I'll be adding in symbolism and all that to this story, though :P

Philippines "running away" and America going after her… well, during the Spanish-American war, the Filipino's fought with the American's to overthrow Spain, falsely believing that America wouldn't take the Philippines as a war trophy if he won the war. Obviously, this proved to be untrue; right after America won the war, he bought the Philippines from Spain (who, at that point, was deeply in debt and near collapse), and deemed her a territory. However, the Filipinos wouldn't let this stand; they rebelled against America right from the start, leading to the American-Filipino war, which lasted for nearly six years. All that I said that America did to Philippines (public executions, burning forests down, ect.) wasn't dramatized; America _really_ beat the Philippines up pretty badly. And I do believe that America may have been setting an example with her; this could definitely be why Puerto Rico and Guam never rebelled (at least not at first :3 More on that later…)

When it comes to Cuba getting sick… the timeline is a bit off. Cuba's internal unrest was more around 1899-early 1900. I just had it happen in 1901 to have it closer to Cuba's year of independence in 1902 (though its only off by a year, I'm sure you can find it in your hearts to forgive me c: ). A lot of fighting took place in Cuba during the Spanish-American War, much more so than in Puerto Rico, and things were pretty chaotic down there for a while. Now, this is just my own personal philosophy/head-canon on the Nation-tans, one that isn't so much out of the realm of possibility: when a Nation fails as a state, he/she dies. By today's standards, Cuba would've been considered a failing state. Which to me translates into dying. Which translates into angst and character development and all that good stuff.

The _Platt Amendment, _an agreement that Cuba had to attach to his constitution as a condition to independence, pretty much allowed America to keep some sort of hold on Cuba. So he wasn't completely free, per say. This was one of the many reasons why Castro's Communist Revolution was able to succeed; Cuba got so sick of America's bullshit that it actually made Russia look good :)

Cuba gained independence on May 20, 1902, Puerto Rico obviously stood behind, yadda yadda…

I made Cuba and Puerto Rico as close as they were because _they actually were_. Seriously, the level of closeness between these two was unusual, to say the least. Their flags are near identical. They fought for independence together. Culture wise, they're pretty closely tied, even among Latin American countries. Translate this into Hetalian, and that's some serious love you're talking about there.

But obviously, these ties were broken. Severed. But again, I'll get to that later.

Like? No like? Tell me about it. I know I don't deserve any reviews, but… please? I promise I won't take this long to update ever again~! C:


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